Porcelain
by Lydia Lecter
Summary: Following the death of the woman he loved, Dr. Amber Volakis, Dr. James Wilson decides that he must distance himself from his friends and family at the Princeon-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. But as he travels further from those he loved and allows a new woman into his life, he slowly learns that there are some things that you cannot outrun.
1. The Sound of Silence

**Chapter One:**  
 **The Sound of Silence**

 _ **"Sooner or later it's over, I just don't want to miss you tonight…" - The Goo Goo Dolls, "Iris"**_

Dr. James Wilson let out a long sigh and unknotted the tie he was wearing. The soft blue tone didn't feel right to him. This wasn't a social event he would soon be asked to attend; it was the funeral that he had spent the last week and a half dreading. The thought of having to inter to woman that he loved was more than he could handle, but he handled it in the same fashion he had so often handled when faced with giving a mother of two small children the news that she was terminal: with a detached sense of efficiency. He followed the creed that had been laid out before him by the man he so often called "friend", but in the light of recent events had began to question the veracity of that title.

It was because of Dr. Gregory House that he was standing alone in the bedroom that he had once shared Dr. Amber Volakis trying to decide which tie would allow him to maintain an illusion of acceptance without revealing the disastrous truth of how he felt. He knew that no matter what he wore he wouldn't be able to conceal the truth from those closest to him, but it wasn't House or Dr. Lisa Cuddy that he feared, it was the Fellows under him and House's team that concerned him. It was those that looked to him for help, guidance, and support that he would be wearing the fragile façade for; it was for those that might doubt his ability to continue and would start to question his confidence. It was, in essence, a mask that he would wear to hide from himself.

"This isn't working for me," he spoke aloud to no one, "I need something that's a bit less cheerful." he said wrapping the soft blue tie around his hand. It wasn't until he reached the collection of ties resting on the bed he had bought with Amber that he noticed that the tie wrapped around his hand was cutting off his circulation. He felt the silk of the tie becoming tighter around his hand, but he had fought the sensation that was building until he couldn't bear it any longer. Looking down he saw that the fingers on his right hand were becoming a strange shade of purple. Closing his fingers around the silk tie he felt the strain course through him. It was strange and almost alien to him, however, it felt like an old friend he hadn't spoken with in years returning to him.

Wilson allowed the sensation to linger for a moment longer before unwrapping the tie from his hand. Glancing over the selection before him, he rested the silk tie back where it had been before, filling in the gap between the assorted shades of blue he had set out minutes before. Moving further down the color spectrum he knew that he wanted something a bit darker. In an effort to circulate the blood in his hand, he ran his right hand across the ties until he came to a stone-washed gray tie. It was dark enough that it wouldn't seem out of place in a funeral, but it was light enough that those around him wouldn't take a second look at him. Affording himself a moment to himself, he lifted the tie from the bed and walked over to the mirror. "Much better," he whispered to himself, "this will do fine." he continued.

Satisfied with the selected tie, Wilson rested the loose tie around his neck. The man looking back at him in the mirror was a complete stranger. His face was littered with the shadows of facial hair, something James Wilson didn't often allow for, casting a strange almost House-like aura over him. Moving in closer he could see the black outlines that had taken residence under his eyes, aging him twenty years overnight. Wilson knew there wasn't much he could do about that, however, he did remember a trick that Amber had once shown him. Scanning the edge of the vanity near the edge of the bed he spotted the compact that Amber had left the evening she went to bring House home from the bar.

Taking a deep breath, Wilson walked over to the vanity and removed the compact. He felt strange opening the compact and looking at himself, but he knew that he had to do something about the ravages of emotional war under his eyes. Moving the mirror so he could see where he had to apply the makeup, he removed the soft sponge from its center location and gently traced under his right eye. He watched as the makeup covered and concealed the darkness that lurked. It wasn't perfect, but it was enough to sell the illusion that he was trying to create. Once he was satisfied with the right eye he moved to the left and did the same. Several moments later he was finished and looked more like the man he had once been.

Wilson ran his left hand across his face, feeling the rough ridges and needle-like sensation of the facial hair and frowned. He would have to shave before he left for the funeral. It would be disrespectful to show up looking like he hadn't slept in since her death and lost track of his razor - even if it was the absolute truth - Amber deserved better than that. Feeling a small chill run through his veins, he shivered and walked into the bathroom where he had left the razor. Glancing down at his wrist to check the time, he saw that he had about an hour and a half before the funeral would start. More than enough time to shave and clean up. Enough time to create a façade and conceal the fact that even though on the exterior he was calm and collected, inside an emotional war was being waged.

As he reached over the sink to turn on the faucet he saw the faint remains of an "x" etched on the webbing of his left hand. He knew that the mark was a reminder, but he couldn't quite recall what it was reminding him of. Shaking it off, he turned the handle and allowed the warm water to rush out over his hand. Closing his eyes for a brief moment to collect his thoughts and afford the heat from the water to create steam, Wilson remembered what the mark was a reminder of. He had been asked, or in this case demanded in a loving tone, to check in with Cuddy before he left for the funeral. He would do that once he had shaved and was feeling something close to his former self.

Once the heat from the steam alerted Wilson that it was time to begin, he brought the razor to his face. He knew that he should have applied shaving cream before he risked cutting himself with each stroke, but he didn't care. He wanted to feel the sting of each hair being removed. He wanted to feel something, anything, that wasn't the cold feeling that had been creeping its way into him these last couple of weeks. As he drew down on the first stroke, he felt the sharpness of the blades against his soft flesh and cringed with each hair that was removed. Bracing himself for the second stroke, he knew what to expect, and wasn't as frightened by the sensation. The sting remained for the duration, but with each successful stroke he felt less and less of the sensation he had created the first time.

It wasn't long before he was finished. Using his right hand to make sure there wasn't anything left, he was satisfied as he inched across his chin and down his throat. He rested his hands on the edge of the sink for a moment before wiping clean the mirror to make sure he was finished. Upon clearing the mirror he saw that the stranger than had once occupied the visage had been replaced by the familiar and almost effeminate James Wilson. He was - more or less - returned to the man that Amber had fallen in love with, House called his friend, and Cuddy had known as her silent confidant. There wasn't much more he could do except wear a faint smile and hold the emotional thunderstorm at bay.

Wilson walked back into the bedroom and removed his dress coat from the far end of the bed. Glancing over at the closet door he saw the trench coat he often wore to the hospital hanging on the door handle. He was taken in by how the small handle was able to support the weight of the coat and his mind drifted to his relationship with Amber. She had often been the one to support his weight, drag him along, and ask him to look at himself and describe what he saw. He felt a pang of heartache wash over him, but instead of fighting it back he allowed it to consume him for a moment. A small voice in the back of his mind reminded him that denial was the first stage of Grief, but he could have cared less.

As he brought the dress coat around, he remembered that he hadn't finished doing his tie. He wanted to leave it as it was, but he knew that Amber, had she been alive, wouldn't have tolerate such behavior. Swallowing the emotional tidal wave that was about to wash him ashore in his mind, he fixed the tie and brought the dress coat the last bit over to complete his look. Moving back over to the closet door, he removed the trench coat. He knew that he might not need it, but something deep inside of him wouldn't allow him to leave it. Taking a long breath, holding the oxygen in longer than he normally would have, Wilson reached into his breast pocket of the dress coat and removed his cell. Looking down with enough trepidation to cause his hands to shake, he opened his contacts list and scrolled down to Cuddy's number. A moment later he brought the cell to his ear and listened as the other line rang.

"Cuddy," the female voice on the other end of the line answered, "I'm almost done with the requisitions at the hospital. I shouldn't be too long." she continued. Wilson was taken aback for a moment before he realized that she didn't know who was on the other end of the line.

"Lisa," he started, "it's me. I was calling because you had asked me to. Before I left for the funeral?" he continued, "I could care less about the requisitions that are on your desk right now." he said feeling a tinge of anger building inside of him. He was never that short with her and he was afraid that she might have taken it the wrong way. "I'm sorry, Lisa." he said in a desperate attempt to cover his ass. He wasn't sure if it mattered or not, but he was satisfied having made an attempt to repair the damage done.

"Oh," she said reflexively, "I'm incredibly sorry about that, James. I didn't realize it was you. I thought you were, uh, someone else." she continued. Wilson could sense that she was attempting damage control from something that House had done. He knew that it would be a bad idea to press the issue too far, but his curious nature wouldn't allow him to let it hang.

"I know it isn't something I should be concerning myself with right now," he asked testing the water, "but what did House do this time? He hasn't killed someone has he?" he asked. There was a long lull in the conversation. Wilson knew that she was searching for the right answer, something that would leave him at ease about the situation.

"He was being the same brash, over zealous, narcissistic bastard that we both know and love," she offered, "but to offer an answer, no he didn't kill someone. Though, this is one of those times when I wish he had. It would be easier to control and deal with." she said letting out a long sigh. Wilson could hear the exhaustion in her voice and was starting to feel like he was pressing the wrong buttons. "But this isn't your fight, James."

"I know," he replied dully, "I don't want to be short here, but was there a reason you wanted me to call you before I left or not?" he asked. There was a tinge of anger in his tone, but he didn't care. He knew that she would understand. He wanted to believe that she would understand. "I don't have a lot of time and I'm about to walk out the door," he continued, "so if there's something that you're looking to find out or say now is the time." he said with a finality that shocked even him. Had he really become this despondent?

"Just wanted you to know that there are those of us who do care, James. You're not alone," she offered, "and even though you might feel like you alone I want you to know that I'm here." she continued. Wilson could feel the emotions churn within himself, but he couldn't allow them to break through a second time. Cuddy was making an honest attempt to be a friend.

"Thank you," he offered," I'll be seeing you at the funeral." he said. He waited another moment for her to say something else, silently counting the seconds until it would be safe to end the call. There was nothing except a bitter silence on the other end of the line. Without much thought beyond what was said, Wilson ended the call. Letting the air out of his lungs, Wilson walked out of the bedroom and listened as the door closed behind him.

As he left the apartment he knew that it would be a few hours before he would return. He took a moment to consider locking the door or leaving it as it was, but he knew the kind of neighborhood he was in and wasn't about to risk it. Listening as the key turned in the lock, he felt a wave of nausea wash over him. Throwing himself to the side, he vomited into the bush next to the stairs. He tried to avoid looking down at what had exalted from his stomach, but he couldn't help it. He was entranced at the brown-red hues splashed across the bushes. There was something poetic about the feeling of release. Shaking it off, he reached into his trench coat's pocket to make sure it was still in there and let out a sigh of relief as his hand came across the shape of the bottle.

The drive to the funeral was one that Wilson could have never expected. He found himself flooded with memories of his life with Amber, each location that had been a set in their life together casting another shadow, each one becoming more painful than the one before it, each one another reminder of what he had lost along the way. The small coffee shop where he had asked her out, the Princeton-Plainsboro Park where the two of them shared their first ice cream, the mattress store where he had made the mistake of buying the mattress she wanted and not one he wanted, every wonderful moment spent with her came flooding back to him, and each one held a darker tone than the one before. Would he ever be able to look at those stores the same? Behold the memories the same?

Wilson could feel himself becoming anxious with each passing moment, but he wanted to maintain control over himself. He would have allowed himself the chance to fall apart on the drive to the funeral, alone, but he knew that he wouldn't be able to compose himself at the funeral if he had. He knew that it would require a strength from within that he did not possess to bring himself back in time. He was three miles out from the cemetery where Amber was being interred when he felt the tidal waves becoming stronger. Reaching into his pocket he groped for the bottle, knowing that the assurance that it was still there might be enough, but he knew before he found it that he was wrong.

Grasping at the round bottle Wilson fought with himself. He knew that he had been becoming dependent on the Valium, almost as dependent as House was on his Vicodin, and that was a road that he wasn't interested in walking down. Wilson swallowed the lump in his throat as he removed the bottle from his coat and rested it on the dash of the car. He would drive the last few miles to the funeral and see where he was when he arrived. If he was still feeling the crushing weight on his shoulders he would allow himself to take one or two, but if he was able to control his emotions he would leave the bottle in the car. Out of sight, out of mind. He couldn't allow himself to become like House was.

As he approached the parking lot of the cemetery he felt another wave of nausea come over him. This time, however, he fought back the pressure that was building in his throat and leaned back in the seat. Glancing around he saw that he was the first to arrive. This afforded him to chance to medicate, if needed, without revealing or having to explain to those around him what was going on. No one had known, except Amber, and she had been an advocate of leaving the bottle home and facing the anxiety without medication. Taking a moment to collect himself, to brace himself, to allocate his emotions, he knew. He knew that he wasn't strong enough to do it alone. Amber would have to deal with him being medicated during her funeral. He took a deep breath and reached across the dash.

Checking once more to make sure that no one was around, Wilson removed the cap on the bottle and watched as three round foreign objects fell in his hand. He looked around the car to see if he had a bottle of water with him, but soon realized that his search was futile. He would have to take them straight. Taking a deep, long breath, he brought his hand to his mouth. Seconds later he felt the Valium land on his tongue and with a swift swallowing gesture Wilson drew the pills down his throat. There was a moment of discomfort that was followed by another wave of nausea, but he was able to fight it back. He would, in a few minutes, be able to face the crushing guilt, anger, and betrayal that awaited him.


	2. A Different Kind of Pain

**Chapter Two:**  
 **A Different Kind of Pain**

 _ **"In my dreams I'm dying all the time, as I wake it's kaleidoscopic mind…"- Moby, "Porcelain"**_

The room was silent except for the constant hum of the machines, acting almost as the errant heartbeat in the absence of his own, filling the room with the illusion of comfort. Wilson had been around death his entire medical career, but nothing he had experienced could have informed him of the helplessness that he would be feeling once he had suffered a reversal of roles. Fate, it would seem, was a capricious nymph who didn't care that James Wilson had saved thousands of lives, allowed the dying to come to terms with their illness, or the countless hours he had spent dwelling on situations that weren't his own.

None of this held the currency that would be required to alleviate the pangs of melancholia coursing through his soul. Looking down at Amber he could see that she had expired. All that was left was a hollow shell, a momento mori, resting next to him in the clinical bed. Wilson could feel the wellspring of emotions building from within, but no matter how desperate he attempted, he discovered that he couldn't bring himself to tears. Taking in a deep breath, he held it in his chest for a moment, before exhaling. After a moment he was rewarded for his effort when a single tear ran down his cheek.

"Amber," he whispered softly to the revenant beside him. "I'm sorry. I failed you." he continued. All he wanted was to be left alone, to wallow in his mistakes, to become consumed by his own grief. He listened, waiting to hear the familiar sound of the Intensive Care Unit doors opening, but it remained silent. Drawing closer to Amber's cold body, he removed his dress coat and wrapped it around her to keep her warm. He didn't care if it was futile.

It was the sound of fingers rapping on his window that brought Wilson back to reality, the cold comfort of knowing it wasn't real, but a bitter reminder of his inherent loneliness. Wilson blinked several times to create a sluice in his eyes and remove some of the redness that had been slowly working its way in since Amber's passing. He knew that he wouldn't be able to conceal the lack of sleep, but at least this would make it less suspicious. Taking one final look in the rearview mirror he could see that the irritation had subsided. Satisfied he climbed out of the car.

As he climbed out of the car he could feel his legs becoming weak. He continued on, however, fighting the need to cave and return to the car. He knew that the act would alert those around him that he wasn't handling Amber's death as well as he was attempting to convey. It would be the fissure in his façade that would, in the end, be the strand that allowed the entire yarn to become unraveled. Taking a deep breath, Wilson felt the muscles in his fingers and legs becoming taut.

Shaking it off he continued out of the vehicle and reminded himself that this wasn't what she would have wanted from him. She would often become livid when he caved or followed along with what those around he wanted to do and didn't speak for himself. He had vowed that he would honor her memory by being more vocal about what he wanted, how he was feeling, and not giving in to the crippling effects of emotional distress that had consumed him.

There was a moment of brief apprehension as Wilson closed the car door and came face-to-face with who had awakened him from his Orpheum dream. He was met by the delicate features of Dr. Remy Hadley. There was an expression of deep concern etched across her youthful visage making her seem older than her years. Wilson offered a weak smile; one that he knew wouldn't fool a blind man, and listened as the soft locking sound of the car door. Thirteen returned the smile, saying nothing, almost a stoic sage, as she extended her hand out to offer Wilson a small charm.

Wilson reached out and removed the small charm from Thirteen's waif-like hand. There was a moment of silence as Wilson ran his thumb over the charm and studied it. He had never seen anything quite like it, but there was a strange quality about it that felt eminent. "It's called a Milagro," Thirteen offered the confounded Wilson, "it's Spanish - means 'miracle' - and it's often used in devotions; this one is a heart," she continued as Wilson nodded, "I felt like it was something that reminded me of you and Amber." she finished with a faint smile.

"I don't know what to say," Wilson said running his thumb over the raised heart, "thank you. I wasn't expecting something like this," he continued looking down at the charm to avoid eye contact, "I'll be sure this makes it to her headstone. That is where I would leave it, right?" he asked. His mind flashed back to a Mexican couple that he had taken care of years before. The woman, Maria Gonzales, had suffered from terminal breast cancer and when she passed her husband, Luis, had asked him to leave a small charm much like the one in his hand on her headstone.

"I'm not sure," Thirteen replied biting her lower lip tensely, "I think so? All I know is it's a kind of memento." she continued. Wilson watched as she nodded to herself and shifted her weight. He could tell that she was becoming uncomfortable, and he couldn't blame her. There was an intense weight in the air which only complicated the interaction. "I'll be around if you, um, need to talk?" she choked out finally. Wilson was half expecting the offer of solace, but there seemed to be sincerity to her tone that cemented his ability to trust in her.

Wilson was about to thank her for the milagro when he heard the faint indicators that the rest of the procession was arriving. Thirteen took a long breath and nodded. She shifted her weight and looked over to where the hearse had arrived. "We should be heading over there," Wilson offered weakly, "and thank you for everything, Remy. It's nice to know that there are those I can trust in." he offered walking beyond her. She blinked a few times and followed behind him.

As Wilson walked from his car, and where Thirteen had shown an unexpected interest in him, he allowed his mind to drift. He knew that he would need time to be alone, a chance to distance himself from House, and explore the emotional tidal wave that was crashing on the shore of his consciousness. He would also have to deal with the mothering that he would receive from his confidante once she arrived; which would include explaining to her the reason there was no wake or service held in Amber's honor, something that Amber had made clear to him in her final hours. He was aware of the complications that were lurking on the borderline of this exact moment in time and the following moment.

There was also the palisade that would be cultivated between himself and House to contend with. Part of him wanted to take every ounce of hatred that was brewing within and direct it at House. A wise man had once said that it was foolish to blame no one and cowardice to blame the all of those around you, so it would be sensible to rest the blame firm upon House's shoulder. Had he not been drinking that evening and been alone this could have been avoided. Amber would be alive and Wilson wouldn't be walking among the departed souls of those had come before him. He would be happy.

Still, there was a part of him that knew that it was as much his own fault as it was House's fault. If he wasn't on-call he would have been there to answer the call. She might have come along, but neither of them would have been on a bus and, by extension, wouldn't have been hit by the garbage truck that started the nightmare that he was now living. As he continued along the winding rows of headstones and monuments, each another reminder of his own loss, he understood that despite the blame he was resting upon House he was equally guilty. He was also the reason House was in the condition that he was in.

As he approached where the funeral was to be held, he noticed that there was a collection of shapes and figures surrounding the silver and mahogany casket that he had chosen for her. Drawing closer he was able to distinguish the order in the chaos. He saw that most of House's team had shown up, including Cameron and Chase, who were standing off to the far right under one of the massive oak trees that littered the cemetery. In the distance Wilson caught the outline of a lone man leaning against another tree. Wilson believed for a moment that the man might have been his former friend, but if it was he wasn't interested in researching the situation further.

There was a slight breeze as he reached his destination. There was a sense of absolute dolor that hung in the air; creeping through each member of the cast of character in the fallacy Wilson reluctantly called his "life". Glancing across the group to his left he caught sight of Cuddy, standing alone wearing an expression of morosity across her ethereal features, which elicited a frown from Wilson. He let out a soft sigh as he watched Thirteen leave his side. He knew that once the interment began that he would have to assimilate with the rest of the group, he wanted to take a moment for himself to say his final goodbye.

Gathering all of the strength he could muster, he moved closer to the casket and rested his hand upon the lid. Wilson could feel his fingers becoming tense and his muscles contracting making it difficult to remain. He could feel the electric shock shoot through him and watched as his fingers trembled across the casket's lid. There was a rhythmic rapping that reported silently out in the cemetery. Taking a quick stock of those around him, he saw that no one had noticed the outburst and felt a wave of relief wash over him.

As he was about to leave, there he felt someone's hand rest upon his shoulder. Out of reflex he reached across his shoulder to meet the hand. "James," she whispered from behind him, "are you going to be able to do this?" she asked. For a moment he was taken aback by the inquiry. The question was innocent, but something about her tone indicated to him that she knew. She understood how he was feeling. There was something about the method she had used to ask it that informed his response to her.

"I don't know," he whispered softly, "I honestly don't know if I can do this, Lisa. I have to be strong, though. She wouldn't have wanted me to back out now." he continued. He wanted to recant what he had said moments before, but he knew that it was too late for that. He knew that once he had allowed her to see beyond the façade that it would be of no use to lie. If there was one thing that Cuddy was an expert at it was in the field of emotional response.

"You know that I am available if you need to talk," she asked, "right? I'm not making this offer because I feel bad about this, I'm doing it because I care." she continued moving her hand off his shoulder and withdrawing. Wilson listened to the soft click of her heels against the small rock that littered the burial area.

Wilson continued to stare down at the casket, nodding to himself, feeling the paralyzing sensation that comes along with the realization that this would be the final chance he would have to see her. One final chance to show how much he truly cared about her by following the time honored rituals used to inter the deceased. One final chance to accept that there was nothing that he could have done; nothing that House could have done; nothing that Cuddy could have done; nothing that any of them could have done to save her. That this was meant to be.

It wasn't long before the minister arrived and Wilson retired to the congregation of friends and family. Looking around the minister took a count of the congress. Wilson followed his example and took one final pass to see if there were any errant visitors arriving. Once he was satisfied that no one else was lingering out of sight and came to accept that House wouldn't be making an appearance, he motioned to the minister to begin the ceremony. As the man started to speak, Wilson could feel his stomach twist in knots. He knew that it wouldn't be a long ceremony, as no one had offered to recite a eulogy, but he could already feel each passing second becoming longer with each syllable.

Almost as if it was out of reflex, he reached across the chasm spread between himself and Cuddy and laced his fingers between her own fingers. For a moment she didn't respond, as if she was as confused by the notion as he was, but after a long break she finally crossed the chasm and locked her fingers with his. A sense of relief washed over him. Part of him wanted her to comfort him in his time of need, console him as she might House, mother him, but he knew in his heart that this was not the case. The reason was feeling these estranged emotions was because was a defensive mechanism. Even though he it wasn't real, it didn't dull the emotional connection he was feeling towards her.

Wilson wasn't sure how much time had vanished, but what he understood was that it hadn't been long. The rest of the group was following the societal rituals of resting a single rose upon the casket, saying their final goodbyes, and moving on. Wilson felt Cuddy's hand slip from his and with it his sense of comfort. He watched as she walked to the casket, resting her hand upon it, whispering something, and returning to Wilson. Knowing that he was next, he started his trek to the casket. Stopping between where he was standing and where the casket was, he removed a handful of soil. He was unsure the significance of such an arbitrary action, but he felt compelled to follow through.

"Ashes to ashes," he whispered softly to the casket, "and dust to dust." he resigned. He motioned for the attendant to lower the casket. He watched as she was lowered down and felt his heart sink with her. He knew, intellectually, that this was a method of solace and comfort, but inside he could feel his emotions clawing their way out of the box he had, as a prerequisite, locked them down in. He was amazed at how little time and effort it required to lower the casket in the cold earth. Looking back to the attendant who was nodding to him to release the soil, he found that he couldn't. He knelt down and watched as he lost control of his hand and the soil began to escape through the cracks in his fingers. "Goodbye." he said silently.

"James," her voice echoed through his mind like a ricochet, "I'm heading over to Starbucks for a mocha, come with me?" she asked. He knew that she was offering to talk to him as a friend, but his erratic mind wouldn't let him hear it as such. It came out as something more than what she meant it to be. "I could use the company and I'm pretty sure you could as well."

"I would love to," he offered standing up, "I need a moment to find myself. This is all a lot to take in." he replied. He watched as she nodded.

There was a strange sense of acceptance that he could feel battling back the nausea. Wilson shoved his hands in his coat and looked down. "I need a moment," he said aloud, "I have something to take care of - alone - if that's okay?" he asked. He knew that he had no reason to ask, but in his state of mind everything felt like a hanging question mark.

"I'll be over at the car," she replied gently, "waiting. Just let me know when you're ready." she finished. Wilson could taste the sweetness in her language, and in that singular moment, he knew that she was a true friend. Wilson watched as she left for the car and as the others turned theirs over and left.

Reaching in his coat he removed the milagro charm Thirteen had offered him. He didn't understand the meaning behind it, or believe in what it represented, but he appreciated the thought she had afforded it. Taking a deep breath, he maneuvered around the open grave and rested the charm on the edge of the headstone. "The rising sun shall always speak your name." he said to the headstone. Feeling another tear roll down his cheek, he climbed to his feet.

Without looking back he walked to where his car was located. Glancing over he saw that Cuddy was on a call, most likely with House, which offered him time to retrieve the bottle he had left in the dash. Careful to avoid alerting his confidante, he climbed in the car, opened the dash, removed the bottle, and rested it in his coat. She had no need to know of his condition, but the thought of leaving them where he couldn't reach them in a time of need was aberrant. He could duck in the bathroom if he needed to, swallow a few, and be back on track.

"Listen, I have something that I need to take care. I'll check back in later," she said into the cell as Wilson drew closer, "I'll call later." she said closing the cell. Wilson rested his arms on the roof of the car and offered her a weak smile. "Ready?" she asked. For a fleeting second he believed that he saw a sparkle in her eye, but he reminded himself that it was his emotional distress speaking.


	3. Moving Forward in Reverse

**Chapter Three:**  
 **Moving Forward In Reverse**

 _"The only thing I'll ever ask of you, got to promise not to stop when I say when…" -Foo Fighters, "Everlong"_

The ride from the cemetery was uncharacteristically silent. There was the occasional hushed small talk or the jittery sigh, but beyond the casual amenities it remained a solemn drive. It was an atypical occasion when he didn't have something to talk say, to offer, but James Wilson had no idea what one would speak of in the situation he found himself in. It wasn't like there was a manual for loved ones of the recently deceased, a kind of field guide that offered volumes of options on things to say to concerned friends and loved ones. And while he undoubtedly understood the reasons behind his actions, the logic that defined the gestures, and while this offered him a trifling placation it still unhinged him. It brought back feelings that he believed he had buried long ago. It only made matters worse that he had no control over it.

Wilson knew that he would have to speak about what occurred in the cemetery, eventually. He knew her well enough to know that she might allow it to linger, given his emotional state, but sooner or later she would confront him about it. He would have liked to believe he would have the luxury of time, but he knew that it was best to face the feelings head on. At least, this is what he would so often tell the families of those he had treated. A helpful doctor, but one who never knew the scope of what it was to be on the other side of the desk. It was also one of the few life lessons his father had taught him before he succumbed to the disease he spent much of the second half of his life combating. Letting out a long breath of air, Wilson recomposed himself and relegated the memories of his father to the back of his mind. There was enough on his mind as it was - he didn't need to tack the stress of his father's passing on to that list - and he knew that he would be performing on emotional tightrope with Cuddy shortly.

He had become so consumed with his own thoughts and reminiscences that he hadn't noticed that they had reached their destination. "James," she said as she moved the shifter and unbuckled her seatbelt, "we're here." There was a lull as he stared out the window, feeling the weight of his emotional distress crushing down on his spirit. "James, are you feeling alright?" she asked again. Wilson could feel his right hand convulsing. "James?" she asked a second time. Though he could still hear her voice clearly, it felt like she was a hundred miles from him now, isolated in the barren wasteland of a frozen tundra of his own creation.

"Yeah," he managed weakly, "I'm doing fine. Just lost in thought is all," Wilson said moving his left hand over his right to conceal the tremor, "I'm not used to this kind of thing. You might have to excuse me." he finished. Cuddy nodded and climbed out of the car. Wilson, drawing in as much air as he could manage to fill his lungs with, exhaled and followed her lead. After a moment he was able to recuperate from the quivering and closed the car door, following Cuddy into the café. If the tremors became more pronounced he would have to clue her in on his condition. A situation that left more than a bad taste in the oncologist's already dry mouth. He also knew the full scope of what that would look like, and for him, it was not what he wanted or needed at the moment.

Once inside Wilson found himself enraptured. There was something incredibly calming about the café, something that emanated comfort. The scent of hundreds of flavors of java filled the air, each more succulent than the last, each inducing another wave of calm and serenity. The faint sound of Imogen Heap floated through the speakers, offering something that few establishments of the like could boast. It didn't take much for him to understand the reason that she had selected this Starbucks and not the one close to the hospital; it was far enough that there wouldn't be the constant reminder that the two of them were doctors, the rushing ambulances and sirens, and it was about as serene as one could find without incense and yoga. Although, he would have welcomed the shift in scenery. Anything to escape from the memories that lingered just on the edge of his mind of Amber.

Wilson found himself thankful for Cuddy's suggestion, as he wasn't expecting the kind of service they received from the soft faced young woman who welcomed them to the café and lead them to their seat. He had been in hundreds of Starbucks around the country, but never one as lavish as this or with a staff that seemed as welcoming or on point. "I'll be back in a moment for your orders." the waitress said with a munificent smile. Wilson offered her a weak smile back, the best he could muster in his current state. Cuddy removed her coat and rested it on the back of the chair and looked tenaciously at Wilson. He knew that she would be seeking answers, but was there more as a friend than an enemy. He would have to continually remind himself of this.

"How are you feeling?" she asked softly. There was a sense of absolute interest in her tone that dictated that she wasn't asking out of duty, but genuine concern for a friend that Wilson hadn't been expecting. "You didn't seem to be doing too well at the funeral," she continued shifting her weight in the chair, "and as your friend I'm worried about you." she finished, smiling gently. For a moment Wilson had trouble with the simple belief that she was interested in how he felt. It was almost as if he was waiting for the other shoe to drop, the favor he would be asked in return for his help. But there never came a second drop of the shoe.

Wilson didn't know quite how to respond without betraying the confidence he had built around himself hours before. He would have to tear down the walls he had so assiduously constructed to keep others out. "I'm having some trouble talking about this," he said softer than he had expected to as it came out as more of a whisper than actual speech, "but I'm making an effort. I need time, Lisa. I don't know how much more of this I can handle." he offered. He knew that it wouldn't be enough to slake her curiosity, but it would be enough to allow him a chance to test the waters with her.

Cuddy leaned back and was about to speak when she was cut off by the return of the youthful waitress, "I can take your order now?" she replied. Wilson found that he had to reflect upon the choices for a moment while Cuddy knew what she was would like. "Sir?" the waitress inquired as Wilson mulled over the options. After a long lull in the conversation he finally made his choice. "I should be back with the macchiato in a few minutes, the chai latte will take a bit longer, is that alright?" she inquired of Wilson. He nodded and the waitress left to retrieve their drinks. Again, he was struck by the kindness in her eyes and her attention to detail. He was also taken in with the fact that she was patient enough to wait for him to make his order, a trait not often found in a waitress who made a little over minimum wage.

"James, that's the exact reason I asked you to come along with me," she confided, "I don't want to sound selfish here, but I was having a lot of trouble there, too. You're not alone in this." she continued. Wilson could hear the conviction her tone and knew that she wasn't lying to him. "I might not have been as close to Amber as you were, but this affected me as well. Let's face it," she said leaning closer now, "it affected all of us - House included." she finished. Wilson looked down at the table and traced the outlines in the wood's design. Despite her concern for him it had somehow become the most interesting thing in the room.

"I know it affected House," he said leveling his voice to obscure his anger, "he would never have gone as far as he had if it wasn't important to him. You know that as well as I do. His obsession with it went beyond his normal defiance and, shall we call it something, enthusiasm to solve the mystery," he continued feeling himself becoming more intense with each passing second, "but I don't know. I don't even know how it affects you because no one really cared for her. House used to call her Cutthroat Bitch for Christ's sake, Lisa!" he shouted losing control. Cuddy's expression was of a woman affronted. His mind raced back to the various vulgarities House had thrown at her. How could he justify such things and still pretend like it mattered to him? Perhaps there was more to this than Wilson had thought.

"James, you might want to lower the volume a bit," she said looking around, "we are in a Starbucks." she continued. Wilson nodded and leaned back in his seat. Had his tone become too loud? Or was she looking out for him? That familiar motherly attitude she often boasted. "But I do understand what you're saying. House is an asshole, let's face it. He's called both of us things I won't dare repeat here," she offered, "hell, he once told me that I should be happy that I wasn't a mother because I couldn't handle dealing with a child that wasn't even my own." she replied. Wilson watched as the faint evidence of tears welled beneath her eyes. Reacting, instead of thinking it through, he reached his hand across the table and rested on her own. It was a reaction that he wasn't expecting of himself.

"You're right," he offered, "but I still don't see how it demonstrates that he cares about you or me, Lisa. It shows how much of a self righteous asshole he is." Wilson replied feeling himself calming down as he spoke. He knew that she was right, that House was an abrasive asshole, but there was still something lurking beyond that, under the cold steel blue eyes, beyond the abusive remarks. House, being a social outcast, often had his own methods of showing that he cared. Methods that ranged from outlandish to absolutely insane. It was a wonder how the two of them remained friends for so long. "Look, I know what you're trying to do and I appreciate it, but I need time. I need to be away from all of this. I need to a change of scenery." he said before he could stop himself.

"You're macchiato and chai latte are ready," the young woman interjected, "and I will be back in a few minutes to check on you two. Enjoy." she said leaving. Wilson slid her macchiato across the table to her and drew his chai close. He could feel the heat emanating from the Starbucks cup and wanted to drink it in more than the actual drink within. He watched as Cuddy blew the steam from her macchiato and let out a long sigh. The waitress went back to the counter, Wilson noticed, and smiled to him. He blew it off as a sympathetic compliment, seeing as how he was broadcasting loneliness. Another aspect of himself that he would have to fix, if he wanted to make it out of this whole situation without being mothered and taken care of.

"Take all the time you need," she said taking a sip from the macchiato, "but do me a favor. I have a friend, an old friend from medical school, who is a therapist. She's in upstate New York," she continued writing something down on a scrap of paper, "her name is Dr. Andrea Scanlon." she said moving the scrap of paper across the table to Wilson. He looked down and noticed that she had written her name and number on the scrap. The name sounded a little familiar to him, like he should have known who she was but couldn't reach down far enough to remind himself of who she was.

"I'm not making any promises," Wilson replied taking the information, "but I will think about it. I don't know what I'm doing yet, but what I do know is that I need to spend some time alone." he reinforced. He watched as she continued to drink her macchiato, searching for something to respond with. He knew that she meant well, but the thought of seeing a therapist seemed a bit extreme. Still, it wouldn't be a bad idea. He often suggested that those who had recently lost a loved one speak to a therapist. Keeping the option open, he folded the note and rested it inside his coat where he could find it if he decided to call on her. It was the least he could do for Cuddy, since she had taken this time to sit down with him and try and be a friend.

"All I'm asking is that you consider it, James," she said softly, "unlike House I won't blackmail you." she continued. Wilson knew that she was right. House had gone to extremes for him in an attempt to save Amber's life, but there was still the lingering fact that he had spent the last twenty three years of their friendship pushing limits. "Speaking of House, have you spoken to him since she died?" she asked. Her words fell through the air and landed in Wilson's delicate heart like a knife. And the blade cut much deeper than he figured that she was cognizant of.

"No," he said without hesitation, "we haven't spoken since...Amber." he said. He knew that she was fishing for something now, but he wasn't quite sure what it was. "I don't have anything left to talk about with him. I could fucking care less about what he has to say, to be honest." Wilson continued. He knew that it was a harsh thing to say about the man he had called his best-friend for so long, but he was done being ambiguous. The time for that had come and was no longer a thought that went through his mind. He could have cared less what she thought, or House, or anyone else for that matter. It was his emotions.

Wilson knew that he was being more detached than he should have been with her, but there wasn't much left he had to talk about. He knew if the conversation continued much longer than she would segue into the reactions at the cemetery, and the more he thought about it the more he felt like it was best to let sleeping dogs lie. He had an innate understanding that she had known how he felt for a long time now and that this was an emotional response, not a strange method of confession to his feelings for her. He also didn't want to re-live the awkwardness of the moment a second time. Once was more than enough for him. More than enough for eight lifetimes, in fact. But it didn't matter, he couldn't rewind the clock and take back what he had said and done. It was too late for that.

"I know how you're feeling," she replied taking another hit from her macchiato, "but you can't blame him for her death." she told him. It was starting to feel like she was trying to mother him. Again. "He risked his life for her; for you." she continued to enforce the issue on him. He wanted to scream, but he knew that it would only create a chasm between them and he needed all the support he could find at the moment. Despite his sense of overwhelming guilt and the need to bolt as fast as he could from all of this. To see something new, something else, to be someone new, someone else.

"I know what he risked," he replied with tinge of disdain, "but I can't do this right now. I'm leaving tomorrow afternoon," he continued unsure of how he had come to that decision, "I'll stop at the hospital and take care of some of the paperwork for an administrative leave." Wilson said standing up. There was a look of absolute desperation painted across Cuddy's face. He was torn between staying a bit longer and leaving to clear his mind. "I need a ride back to the cemetery to collect my car." he replied, almost in a whisper. It was an uneasy truth that he hadn't taken into consideration when he had agreed to come with her. Now, as he was about to leave, he found that he was back in her debt and in need of her assistance.

Wilson had expected the ride back to the cemetery to be one long list of reasons that he shouldn't leave or an excuse to lift the burden of blame from House, but it wasn't. He was astounded at the silence that filled the vehicle. There was only the rhythmic lullaby written by the thoroughfare beneath them. Part of him was relieved, having expected to have to listen to Cuddy's rationalizations and excuses to remain around, but still yet there was a small blemish in his soul that wanted her to bereave him. It felt strange for her to give up so easily. He was about to speak when he noticed on the horizon the cemetery. Glancing over to the woman next to him he felt, for a brief moment, that he was in the company of a stranger. Cuddy was kind of woman who had something to say about everything, but here she was silent. He couldn't tell if it was because he had been abrupt with her, offended her, or some reason beyond his meager understanding. "We're here." she said flatly.

"Lisa, I didn't mean to be so offensive back there," he said trying to smooth things over with her, "but I need some time. This is all a lot to take in and it's coming at me from all sides…" he said, his voice starting to trail off as she stopped the car next to his own. "Thank you for the chai latte and conversation." he offered. He watched as a small smile cracked across her lips. It wasn't much, but it was enough to console his bruised sense of friendship. Despite his rebuttals and his insistences that he needed time and didn't want her help, she still kept him in her heart. It was a reassuring thought.

"Just think about what I said," she replied, "and call Andrea. She's a friend and I know that she won't screw with you. She's about as honest as House and as kind as I am." she continued. Wilson nodded to indicate that he understood her assessment. "And if you still need someone to talk to I'm free. I can make time to talk to you, if need be." she reached across the seat to him. Wilson felt himself reach across and meet her halfway. The amount of physical contact between the two in the last few hours had come as a shock to him, but he wasn't about to complain. Despite everything, she was still an amazing woman.

"Again, I can't thank you enough for what you're doing," he said climbing out of the car, "and I should be around after lunch - would you like to do lunch with me tomorrow? One final lunch before I leave for awhile?" he asked, feeling himself becoming tense. She continued to smile back and nodded. Wilson nodded softly and climbed the rest of the way out of the car and began walking back to his own, unsure if he would be able to keep the appointment he made with Cuddy to have lunch with her.


	4. Running Blind

**Chapter Four:**  
 **Running Blind**

 _"Running through a field where all my tracks will be concealed and there's nowhere to go…" - The Red Hot Chili Peppers, "Snow" (Hey Oh)_

"Well, that's one way of fucking up a beautiful friendship." Wilson said aloud as he tried to turn his vehicle over, cursing himself for his own stupidity. As he moved the shifter he allowed his mind to drift back to his encounter with Cuddy in the café. She was trying to help him, to offer him a chance to talk, and in realizing that she might not be able to coax it out of him, she had offered him the number to a friend he could express himself with and not feel confined. It was odd to be on the other end of the conversation for him, but he knew she meant well. And, he thought to himself as he continued to fiddle with the car, it was often easier to speak to someone you didn't know. A sympathetic ear from a sympathetic stranger. Perhaps this was what he needed. It didn't matter that she was doing everything he would have done in the same situation and he had taken her offering and shut down - in essence locking her out - all of this after he had sought her soothing embrace. He was becoming more and more like House with each passing moment. It was not a helpful thought to have tumbling around in your mind.

Brushing these aberrant thoughts from his mind, Wilson struggled to think of something - anything - else. He knew that Amber wouldn't have wanted him to dwell on her death, let alone harbor misconceptions about his relationship with Cuddy, but the sense that he had inadvertently affronted her continued to linger. He wouldn't allow the distance to float between the two of them for too long, but he knew that it would ostentatious to call her sooner rather than later. He would allow himself a bit longer, time to mull it over, before he would make that call. It was often distance and time that allowed for healing between friends and while he understood this wasn't the end of their friendship, he knew that it was the transition from one level to another. One that could lead to strange new lands or chase them further apart. Either way, he knew that she cared for him. More than he had thought before the loss. It was nice to see a different side of Lisa Cuddy, one other than the mediator who often asked him to corral House in. A task he took to like a duck to water.

Shifting his weight in the driver seat, he felt the bottle resting in his pocket shift with him, a sullen reminder that it was still there. Waiting for him. He felt himself becoming tense once again. Reaching down he groped for the bottle, but stopped himself before he could withdraw it. "Amber wouldn't have wanted this," he said to himself in an effort to talk himself out of it, "she wouldn't have tolerated this kind of shit, James." he told himself. Checking the dash clock he saw that it had been less than two and a half hours since he had last taken the Valium. As a doctor he was aware that if he continued to take it he would run the risk of overdose or coma. "Later," he resolved stiffly, "if I'm still feeling like this I'll take another few later. Yeah…" he continued, his voice trailing off. He recognized that he was making a deal with himself, much like an addict would, but this thought soon escaped his mind as he tried to focus on something other than the need that was slowly building in the depths of his chest.

Pulling up to the stop light he let out a labored sigh. Glancing around, as he often found himself doing when confronted with a stop light, he saw the local Barnes and Noble was less than a mile ahead. His mind flashed to the hundreds of somber family members he had directed to the local bookstore, offering a list of self-help books, and recommendations he had made to help them overcome the recent loss of their loved ones. It felt strange to him to be thinking of such a thing within the construct of his current state of mind, but Wilson felt himself drawn to the idea of allowing someone else telling him how to deal with his misery. He had spent most of his life being the "shoulder to cry upon," "receptive friend," and "the kindly doctor." He didn't believe that it was too much to ask to be on the other side of the couch, to be consoled instead of being the consoler. He found himself once again thinking of Cuddy and how she had tried to be the consoler and he had thrown it back in her face. Like an disrespectful wretch who deserved no such kindness.

The light switched and Wilson lurched forward. Behind him he could hear the cacophony of profanity and other drivers becoming increasingly agitated with him. Part of him could have cared less what they thought of his indecision. They knew nothing of his situation or how he felt. How could they? And more importantly, how could they even consider the task of judging him? Just because he was moving slower than they liked? It was presumptuous at best. The other half of him wanted to do what most Jersey natives would have done in his situation, but it wouldn't have done much to resolve his trepidation. Continuing along, he soon found himself flicking the blinker on his wheel and turning into the parking lot of the Barnes and Noble. It was more of an unconscious choice than one that had come from his own choice, but he didn't have the energy or courage to correct his course. He shifted the knob as he stopped in the parking space and leaned back in the seat. Reaching down in his pocket he fumbled with the bottle, running his hand over it, and reflexively removing it.

Looking down at the bottle of Valium he felt himself becoming tranquil. It was an amazing illusion, he thought to himself, as he felt the calm wash over him from the simple act of looking at the bottle. Still, he could feel the anticipation collect in his heart as he moved his hand across the bottle and examined it, reading his name written on the bottle, his doctor's name, and that he should take two each morning and before bed. It had been a difficult choice to make, but one that he had come to accept. Amber had told him that it was okay, now and then, to let your pride falter and accept the help of others. And he had, in an effort to find comfort, and found himself with a prescription to Valium. As he started to untwist the cap, he heard Amber's voice scolding him for being weak, giving in to his depression, and accepting defeat. Taking heed of what he took to be the Voice of Reason he often shoved down, he rested the bottle on the dash of the car and unbuckled his belt. He had told himself later and he was going to keep that promise to himself.

As he climbed out of the car he felt his cell vibrating. Reaching into his breast pocket, he removed his cell and bit his lower lip. The name on the screen read "House." Wilson debated answering the call, however, decided that it would be better if he let it reach his voicemail and deal with it later. There was little the man could say that would hold much interest to him. He had enough agitating him as it was, he didn't need to have House berating him for being an idiot. Moments later the cell vibrated a second time, this time informing him that House had left him a message. Looking down at the cell, he tossed it into the car and shut the door. He was James Wilson right now, not Dr. James Wilson Head of Oncology at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Hospital business could wait. It would wait. The last thing he needed was a constant reminder of things he was trying to forget and House would be the face to that desire. Besides, if it was something dire he would track him down, as he had done so many times before.

Feeling an aura of release that had eluded him for so long Wilson, walked into the Barnes and Noble with a calm and collected sense of being. He was free from the amalgamation of stress conspiring to break him down. He was nothing more than a simple man; something that he had lost along the way to becoming the complicated man that he was. Taking a deep breath, he swung open the ornate double doors and crossed the threshold of the Barnes and Noble. He was taking the first steps in his journey of self discovery. At least, this was what he told himself as he broached the entrance and felt the cool breeze that felt even more inviting to him than usual. He found it strange that he felt so calm and cool in a book store, but he was reminded that it was in a book store that he had developed so many loves and interests. It was almost as natural as breathing for him, to be in a store, surrounded by volumes of knowledge and fiction that had brought so much joy to himself and others.

Upon walking in he discovered that he was flooded with hundreds of options, choices abound, and realized that he didn't know what he was looking for. He intrinsically understood that what he needed, but as his eyes continued to take in the thousands of books before him he became lost in an ocean of choice. For a moment he found himself overwhelmed, consumed even, with the prospect of having to locate something to help him cope with his loss. It had been far too long since the last time he had set foot in a Barnes and Noble, or any book store for that matter. He used to know where everything was and where even the most obscure tome could be found. Now, now he felt like a stranger in a strange land as he scanned the countless shelves. Shifting his weight he took a long breath and scanned the aisles for someone who might be able to assist him in his conquest.

Moving with an absolute sense of unease and confusion, Wilson found himself drawn to the Michael Crichton section. It wasn't the exact spot he had thought he would find himself drawn to, but it also wasn't as alien and unknown as it might have seemed on the surface. Collected before him on the mahogany shelf the selections of novels were laid out before him. Tilting his head to the left to read the titles he saw all of the classics: _Jurassic Park_ , _Congo_ , _The Andromeda Strain_ , and _Timeline_. Each was a classic and each one he had, at one time or another, read from cover to cover with an enjoyment he rarely found in most fiction writers. Continuing down the line, he saw that Crichton had written more since he had finished reading the magnificent _State of Fear_. As a doctor he had precious little time to keep up with writers he loved, but now and then, when the option was available, he liked to check in and see what was new. See what he had not yet read. Perhaps locate a new favorite, even.

Each of the new titles had the same boast of action and adventure infused with cutting edge bio-medical technology run amok, however, in his current emotional tumultuous state of mind he knew that this wasn't what he was looking for - he was looking for something a bit more introverted and psychological. This was when out of the corner of his eye he spotted the one Michael Crichton novel he had never read before: _Sphere_. As he reached out for the novel, he felt himself becoming more and more drawn to it. It was odd that there was an older novel by Crichton that had somehow escaped his attention, but there it was. On the shelf, next to a copy of _The Lost World: Jurassic Park_ , another novel that he had loved despite it's outlandish sense of science. He often had to remind himself that Crichton had been a doctor himself and this was his way of releasing those thoughts that kept him up at night. And if some bad or questionable science was required to make something a little more exciting, he could forgive that. Even if it was still pretty out there.

Fascinated, he turned the novel over and scanned the description. As he read about the storyline of the novel he felt a bolt of electricity shoot down his spine. This was a new sensation that he had never quite felt before. It was as if he was reading about himself, if he had been asked by the government to investigate a strange sphere located at the bottom of the ocean, and he found himself even more entranced with the novel. Wilson found himself checking the self before him, noticing the gap that he had created in taking the novel from it's resting spot, and saw a clear metaphor of his life emerging. Something had been taken out of his life that had felt concrete, but despite the fact that there was a void, it would soon be replaced with something else. The trite lives often lead by the protagonists of the novels brought - often unwillingly - into a situation much beyond their control and forced to overcome the dangerous nature of tech and science spinning wildly out of control. Looking closer, he realized that what he was seeing wasn't so much about the novels as it was the actual location those novels occupied.

His life was like the shelf on which the novel had been resting; a life that had been lived and was dense with knowledge, adventure, and friendship, yet in the center of it all something was missing. The longer he focused on the shelf and the collection of novels, the more he was drawn to the gap, the absence that had been created by the removal of a single novel, a single unexpected event that, in the flow of vivacity, was unanticipated and left the visage incomplete. "Sir, are you looking for something?" came a youthful female voice. Wilson felt himself become tense and spun on his heel to see a young redhead smiling at him. He wondered how long she had been there, watching him stare at the empty slot in the shelf like an idiot. Out of desperation he scanned around to see if there was an escape route available.

"Oh," he stuttered, "I was looking over your wonderful selection of Michael Crichton novels." he managed to choke out. The young woman smiled at him. Wilson felt himself becoming lax and allowed the breath he was holding to liberate itself. The woman nodded and offered a curt smile. Glancing down he checked to see what her name was, trying to avoid coming off like an ass who was busy staring at her ample breasts, and saw that it was Evelyn. "I'm a fan of his and was looking for something I hadn't read before," he offered making small talk, "and came across this one, um, _Sphere_." he said feeling a faint smile cracking along his lips. Evelyn nodded once more, this time with a sincerity Wilson had never seen someone who spent forty hours a week slaving in retail boast.

" _Sphere_ ," she mused aloud, "that's the one about the craft under the ocean. I don't think I've had the chance to read it yet either, but I have seen the film. God, Dustin Hoffman was amazing in that! One of his best roles ever, if you ask me." she offered. Wilson found himself feeling at ease around Evelyn. She radiated an aura of confidence that was almost contagious. "Though, between you and me, I think that _Jurassic Park_ and _The Lost World: Jurassic Park_ were his best novels. The movies were amazing, too. Just wasn't a fan of the third. God that was a terrible movie. Ever see it?" she asked absolutely beaming. Wilson felt the desire to run recede and found that this young woman, Evelyn, had made him feel a lot less like the idiot who stood there obsessed with a empty slot in the shelf.

"I can't say that I've ever seen it," Wilson replied, "but seeing as how someone of your wonderful taste didn't like it I'll have to take that into consideration next time it's on to avoid it." he said. There was enough truth in his statement that he didn't feel like he was lying to the woman, she was going well beyond what was being asked of her in talking to him, and he found himself comfortable enough with her to let her in a small bit. "Evelyn," he said looking over the novel a second time, "I have to confess that this isn't the real reason I'm here. The real reason is I was looking for the self-help section and became sidetracked and found myself in this Ocean of Crichton and couldn't resist." he replied. He watched as Evelyn shifted her weight, rested her left hand on her hip, and chewed on what he was saying. Wilson felt his heart sink, feeling like he had said too much, when she smiled to him and motioned behind him about a hundred feet. For a second he had no idea what she was pointing out to him.

"We have one of the best self-help selections in the state," she boasted, "is there anything specific you're interested in? I've been stocking that section for so long I'm almost an expert on the various topic." she offered. There was a tone of unadulterated desire to assist in her voice. Wilson was unsure if he could tell her the full extent of what he was looking for or if he should leave it where it was. "You don't have to share with me, but if I can be of assistance I won't share with anyone else what you share with me." she coaxed. Wilson couldn't help but wonder if his anxiety was written across his forehead and this woman had simply read it off, or he exuded the pallor of someone who had taken a hit that was too much for them to bear, but the thoughts quickly evaporated as he found himself further entranced by her heartfelt desire to help him.

"When you say it like that," he replied feeling a bit less tense about it, "I lost someone close to me recently and I was looking for something about dealing with and overcoming emotional distress." Wilson confessed. Evelyn nodded, her hazel eyes full of honesty, and motioned for him to follow her. Following her lead he found himself navigating a maze of novels, comics, dictionaries, and audio books. Each one seemed to offer something new, another escape from reality, another new adventure to insinuate yourself into, but he knew that if he was to overcome this he would have to cement himself in reality. The fictional account of psychological testing by an underwater craft, while absolutely out of the realm of possibility, was more a metaphor of his life than anything else on the shelves surrounding him and the young Evelyn. And one that he felt comfortable with the exploration of. What could be better than allowing yourself to be lost within another world, a magical world much like your own, and one that reflected your own troubles?

It wasn't long before Wilson and Evelyn arrived at their destination. Rotating on her heel, Evelyn came face-to-face with Wilson. "This would be where you can find everything from Dr. Phil's daft brand of self-help to the real breed of folks who are interested in helping you, the reader. I have found that the best are Dr. Sean McNamara's _Dealing With The Pain of Loss_ and Dr. Robert Stewart's _The Stoic Sage: Coping With Your Grief_ , but that's me." she offered. Wilson nodded taking into consideration what she had said. "If there's anything else I can help with you can find me lurking in the Anne Rice section." she replied. Wilson faked a smile and Evelyn left him to his own devices. He found himself wondering how such a cheerful and sanguine young woman could know so much about this type of loss, but reminded himself that it would have been out of line to ask such a thing. He was a customer, little more than that, and not a friend. He should leave it alone, but his mind continued to wonder as he scanned the shelves of the Self-Help section.

Watching as she left he felt a strange sense of loss wash over him. It was rare to find someone as interested in helping as she was and even more extraordinary to establish such an ease with said someone. Casting the isolation aside, Wilson returned his attention to the shelves and scanned the selection of titles before him. There was a sense of awe at the vast amount of pages consolidated before him as he ran his hand across the spines of the various options. Thinking back to what Evelyn had recommend, he slid his hand along until he came across _The Stoic Sage: Coping With Your Grief_. It was one of several books he often offered as a recommendation when asked, yet for some reason or another had never read beyond the description on the back of the book. "No better time than now, James." he whispered to himself as he removed the book from the shelf. This time he was able to avoid the enraptured attention to the void that was left behind.

Glancing around to make sure there was no one around who might know him, he held the book out and listened as the spine cracked, indicating that this was the first time it had ever been opened. Wilson watched as a small plume of dust rose out of the book, waving his hand to clear the air, and read the obligatory list of critics praising Dr. Stewart's deft craftsmanship and ability to help others. It all read like something you would expect to hear on one of Dr. Phil's shows, but he sensed that there was sincerity in each of the critic's statements. One, written by a critic in upstate New York, stood out. "Dr. Stewart writes with an intense and intimate understanding of the conditions of grief stemming from the experience of losing his wife at a young age.". The review struck a chord in Wilson that brought the loss of Amber back into sharp relief. Again, he felt the intense need for the Valium that was out in his car, the chemical escape that could release him from the memories. To hell with what his subconscious mind thought. Still, he was able to force the craving down long enough to return his attention to the books in his hand.

Satisfied that this was the best option out of the immense choices before him, he rested it under his arm along with Michael Crichton's _Sphere_. He was astonished with the effortlessness he had in finding what he was looking for. The unspoken truth was, however, that when he had entered the store he had no idea what he was looking for; he only knew that he was looking for something to mollify his misery. He would still require sabbatical from Princeton- Plainsboro, however, no amount of self-help would change that. It was with that he found himself once again thinking of Cuddy and their amorous encounter. He resolved that he would discuss what had occurred at the cemetery with her when he found himself in the hospital. Right now his focus remained on paying for the books he was carrying and making it out of there without having to reveal to another clerk how he was feeling; Evelyn was a fascinating fluke. But a fluke that he found to be as equally intriguing as the encounter that they had shared. For a brief moment he considered checking the Anne Rice section to see if she was still there.

As he walked through aisle after aisle of diverse novels ranging from romance to humor he had the strangest feeling that he was being watched. He wasn't certain of the source, whether it was another customer or one of the countless clerks, there was only the incredible sense that he was being followed. Scolding himself for being paranoid he eradicated those thoughts from his mind and continued toward the registers. Still, something was off. Taking a moment to alleviate his concerns, he spun around and scanned the aisle behind him. In the distance he saw the silhouette of a man looming just out of sight. Feeling foolish, he lurched closer. "Hello?" he said to the silhouette. There was no audible response to his inquiry. It was as if the figure didn't hear him or couldn't decide if he was worth the effort of responding to.

Moments later the silhouette shifted out of view. Wilson couldn't help but feel a sense of familiarity with the shape, as if he had seen it before, but he found it difficult to trace the origins of the acquaintance. Brushing the encounter from his mind he continued his trek to the register so he could check out and leave. He wanted nothing more than to be alone with his thoughts; alone with his sorrow. He wanted to be alone in the apartment that he once shared with Amber, but he knew that he would never be alone with her memories still tied to everything in the apartment. On every sheet, leaking out of the faucets, and covered on the walls. It was not something that he could easily dismiss or replace, but it was all he had and like it or not, it was all that would be left of Amber.

Once he reached his destination he was relieved that the clerk behind the counter was a young man in his mid-twenties. "Find everything you were looking for?" he half-heartedly inquired as he scanned each of Wilson's reading choices. Wilson nodded and reached for his wallet. Removing his American Express he handed it to the man. The young man slid the card across his register and handed it back to Wilson. "Thank you for shopping at Barnes and Noble. Be sure to come back and shop with us soon." he replied, sounding less excited about the prospect than Wilson was. This was the kind of service he had come to expect out of employees who made minimum wage and had little prospect ahead of them. Part of him wanted to scream at the young man, to tell him to find something better for himself if he was so miserable where he was, and the other part of him wanted to be back out at the car. In the comfort of the bottle that was still rested on the dash.

Stepping outside, Wilson felt a chill run through him as a strong crosswind blew across the parking lot. He felt accomplished and satisfied with himself. He had managed to retain some semblance of control and had even made a friend, if she could be called that, without having to talk too much about what he was feeling. The thought of his encounter with Evelyn reminded him of the woman Cuddy had mentioned to him during their time at the café, Dr. Andrea Scanlon. He thought of how much ease he found in talking about his loss with Evelyn, a woman he had never spoken to before, and decided he should call Andrea when he had a little bit of time on his hands. If nothing else he could confirm to Cuddy that he had spoken to someone about his emotions and she would be satisfied. He felt like he owed her that much, if nothing else. He resolved that he would do this as soon as he arrived back at his apartment and had a chance to sort out a few things.

Reaching his car, he withdrew his keys from his pocket and rested the books he had purchased on the roof. Another crosswind blew his hair across his face and caused him to fumble with the lock. "Damn it!" he shouted. Resting his hands on the driver's side window he composed himself and attempted to unlock the door a second time, this time with much more success. Collecting the books from the roof of the car he climbed in, buckled his seatbelt, and turned the car over. Glancing across the seat to his cell he saw that no one else had tried to reach him while he was in the store. "Just House," he said to no one as he shifted and started out of the parking lot, "wonderful. If I'm feeling up to it later I'll call you back, but don't hold your breath."

There would be time to take care of the loose ends at the hospital tomorrow. As he left the parking lot he looked over at the bottle and caught himself looking at the clock, expecting to see it reward him with his patience, but it indicated that he would have to wait a bit longer before he could release the building tension. Letting out a burst of oxygen he felt his muscles become lax. He could feel a sense of failure washing over himself as he reached for the bottle. "No," he said aloud, "I won't fail you." he said, speaking to Amber. Searching his soul for the strength to deal with the cravings, he pushed the button to lower his car window, and in a move that even he hadn't expected of himself he tossed the bottle into the street, hoping he had made the right choice.


	5. Loose Ends

**Chapter Five:**  
 **Loose Ends**

 _"Dear Agony, just let go of me - suffer slowly - is this the way it's got to be?" - Breaking Benjamin, "Dear Agony"_

The next morning Wilson awoke with a sense of deep seated apprehension in his heart. He felt himself becoming tense, his vision blurry, and his head splitting and out of habit reached for the bottle of Valium that would have been resting on his vanity; however, upon groping around he remembered that he had thrown it out the window of his moving car the afternoon before. Cursing himself under his breath, he leaned back on the bed he let out a long sigh and tried to calm himself. After several minutes he felt the efforts were futile and resigned to simply dealing with the discomfort until he could find either another bottle of Valium or an acceptable substitute. The best he could come up with was the spare bottle of aspirin that he had in the second drawer of the vanity next to the bed.

He spent the next hour and a half drifting through the apartment, moving through the motions he felt contributed to his "normal life"; things like taking a shower, making breakfast, and dressing himself. Each new routine seemed to create a new and unexpected challenge for him. The shower, which shouldn't have caused the slightest second thought, became a marathon of endurance as each new splash of water smacked down upon his bare silhouette. Each drop a new wound open from a memory of himself and Amber together in the shower, making love in the early morning light. Out of a kind of unrealized grief he managed to turn the knob on the heated water all the way. A fact that he didn't notice until he felt the heat from the water blister across his bare flesh. He wanted to feel the bitter sting of the droplets of heated water beating across him like razors along his wrists. He deserved it for not being a better man to her, for letting her down, and for not doing what he should have done before. Finally, when his skin had become red and sensitive he climbed out and watched as the remains of the water flushed down.

Making breakfast brought the hazy memories of Amber cooking him his morning meals before he would leave for the hospital. He found himself unable to avert his observation of the coffee mug that she had left the evening she was taken from him; containing the revenants of the Pepsi she had been drinking awaiting her return. He knew that it was unsanitary to leave the mug as she had left it, but he couldn't bring himself to clean it and remove the drink. It was all he had left of her and, as audacious as it sounded, he didn't want to remove it from where she had left in case of her return. He knew this was a castle in the sky, but it helped him sleep at night and sleep had become an act that he was both uneasy about and desire more than anything, save for his silent addiction. He knew that sleep would allow his mind to rest, for a little while, and not dwell in the stark reality around him. He could see Amber, be with her, and enjoy their few little moments with one another before the sun rose and stole it away from him. Again.

Dressing himself was something he had been doing, with much success, since he was six years old. He was like most children his age and wanted to explore the various styles and fashions, each new era of his life dictating his new style, starting with his late childhood as the preppy boy, followed by the teens as the angst ridden Goth, and finally his twenties - and with it college and med school - brought the starched collar business suit wearing James Wilson. This morning, however, none of that seemed to matter. He shifted from his weekly business attire to his more relaxed weekend wear and found himself continually unhappy with his choices. He finally, after much debate and effort, decided upon a pair of new blue jeans Amber had bought him, designed to look old, and The Dead Milkmen, one of several band shirts he had managed to steal from House over the decades, t-shirt. Even those brought back unwanted memories of Amber, helping him establish a weekend look that wasn't, as she had lovingly called it, "bland and out of date." Despite this, it was the only comfortable options he had.

Once he had managed to trudge through the weary day-to-day routines he felt entrapped by, he forced himself to start the obligatory packing for his journey. He didn't know how long he it would be before he returned to Princeton, or if he would come back, but he knew it would be more than a week. It was with this mindset that he chose several outfits - each unique in its own right - and two suits. He knew that it was likely he wouldn't need the suits, but he brought them along because he believed it was better to be ready for anything. Checking to make sure he had enough clothes with him, he walked over to the vanity and selected several novels to bring along - beyond the ones he had purchased the afternoon before - in case he ran out of things to read along the way. As he stuffed his copy of Michael Crichton's _Sphere_ into his bag he smiled to himself for the first time. It was an odd choice, he reflected, but it was one that had spoken to him. And in his current state of mind that's what he felt he required. Something that spoke to him.

Glancing around one final time to make sure he didn't miss anything, he zipped the suitcase closed and rested it at the door. He knew he better than to think he could have left the apartment as it was. He would need someone trustworthy to house sit for him in his absence. He would deal with that once he was done tying up loose ends at the hospital. Wilson knew he could trust Cameron and Chase to watch the apartment, but he kept coming back to Cuddy as the most reliable option he would have. He would cross that bridge when he came to it. He would be laying a lot upon her shoulders as it was, he didn't want to weigh her down too much. He owed her that much. And it was in bad form, he thought, and the new James Wilson didn't do things out of bad form. He would think of someone, eventually. One thing he knew for absolute certain, he would not be asking Gregory House to watch over his apartment. He had made that mistake more than once and it was not one he was about to make again.

There was a solemn silence that filled the air as he walked to the front door. He was aware that this could be the final time he slept there, showered there, ate in the small kitchenette, or watched a movie. In his heart he knew that he would return, sooner or later, but it wouldn't be before he found himself; found what was missing from his life. It could be a two week long vacation and he could come back full of life and ready to resume his duties as the Head of Oncology or it could be months before he was able to find it in himself to return and even that might be to wrap up the loose ends dangling above him at the hospital so he feel better about leaving. For what felt like the first time in his life, James Wilson had no idea what he was heading towards. He only knew that he was in search of the new James Wilson. A man who was better than he was now, much more secure in himself. Who wasn't afraid to stand up to those around him and say no to the things that he didn't want to do. But most importantly, he was, in the end, the man he wanted to be.

With a vague sense of accomplishment and the aspiration to carry on he walked through the front door and stepped out into the warm May air. Wilson found it anomalous that the section of town he resided in seemed to be vivacious at the strangest hours of the day, yet at the first signs of morning, it felt almost tranquil. Checking the time, he saw that it was a few minutes after eight in the morning. It was often around this time that the street was bustling with people coming home from their evening shifts and others were venturing out to begin their adventures in the corporate universe. It was also not a point in the day when he was usually outside. He had always found himself knee deep in work by this time and half anxious about the first break in the day, breakfast. Which was often held in congress with House and Cuddy or, on the rarest of occasion, he was able to have it alone. By himself. Allowing him the chance to think about the choices he had made, would have to make, and the treatments laid out for those under his care. "Strange." he said to himself as he hauled the suitcase to the trunk of the car. Fumbling with the keys, he finally located the one to open the trunk. Lifting the suitcase and resting it inside he felt a sense of satisfaction. He had taken the first steps on the Healing Road. Proud of himself, he climbed in the car and turned it over, heading towards Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. He was feeling confident that things would run smoothly once he arrived.

Wilson was stunned that the drive from Amber's former apartment to the hospital was as unadulterated as taking a delightful walk with Amber through Princeton's eloquent Autumn Leaves Park and Camping Grounds. He had been expecting a catalyst of constant reminders of his relationship with Amber, wave after wave of unexpected and unwarranted suffering that he would have no defense against. He knew it would be made worse by the actuality that he had thrown the one cure he had was now somewhere below the streets of Princeton, likely making its way to New York or some other exotic location. Brushing those thoughts and feelings from his mind, Wilson focused on the drive to the hospital. It wasn't long before he found himself in the Visitor's Parking section of the hospital. He knew that he wouldn't have much trouble if he wanted to be closer to the building - namely in his own parking spot - but it didn't feel right. He wasn't coming in as Dr. James Wilson. He was entering the hospital as a visitor now, as another one of the hundreds of people who walked through the double doors. He didn't require any concessions on his behalf. Parking several hundred yards from the entrance also afforded him the time he needed to brace himself for what was ahead of him.

Climbing out of the car he took in a deep breath. Glancing around, he hadn't known how long he had held his breath, but he could feel the sting from within his lungs that altered him to his human need to release the oxygen he had taken in so he could breathe. He knew that it had been longer than he had expected. Letting out the breath, he felt the tension in his chest release and a sense of ease wash over him. Continuing to survey the parking lot he saw that it wasn't as crowded as he had been expecting it to be. This would make it a bit more difficult to avoid the nurses, but he was certain that he could manage. Closing the door on the car he took his first step forward toward the double doors that he had walked through countless times before. In his heart he hoped he could avoid House, or those on his staff, but he knew the chances of doing that would be slim. He would have been better off if he had decided to play the lottery. At least with that he had the illusion of chance. It was more than he could say of his current situation.

As he shuffled from his vehicle he found himself listening to snippets of various conversations. Each one was as unique as the last, however, there seemed to be a singular topic that each fostered: the hospital. Some exuded excitement about the return of loved ones who had entered ill but were now leaving healthy, some were abundant with remorse over lost loved ones, who unlike the prevalence of others who enter, would not be leaving in such brilliant conditions. Still, some were snippets of conversations between doctors. Wilson felt a pang of anger wash over him as he drew closer to the double doors and caught a fragment of a conversation. He was unsure who the two conversing were, but what he did know was both were doctors and both were discussing House's failure. It was a stark reminder of the reason he would be standing in Cuddy's office, hands at his sides, feeling as if the ground beneath his was rushing up to smack him in the face, and unsure of what to say. Swallowing the growing lump in his throat, Wilson continued to the entrance. It was a reminder that had come as unwelcome as the events of the morning triathlon.

There was a soft whoosh sound as he drew closer to the double doors. He felt a slight breeze as he enter, mussing with his hair, and causing him to shiver. Once he had breached the hospital he allowed himself to glance around and take stock of what was going on around him. To his right he saw the wall that notified visitors and doctors alike of the donations that had been made, what was coming up, and who was the "Doctor of the Month." Ahead of him were the elevators, where he had spent more time than he cared to amount talking with House, making bad excuses, and making amends. It became painfully clear to him that it was also within the cold steel walls, lifeless and bland, that he had first met Amber and offered his best attempt at small-talk. A sudden thought that this very room, this entranceway, held more memories for him than any other location in his life. He had made friends there, broken hearts, mended the sick, and taken comfort in the simple things. It was as if it was a metaphor for his heart, open and closed, all at once.

Forcing those thoughts from his mind, Wilson spun on his heel and swerved to his left; toward his first and final destination in the hospital. Standing before him was the Clinic, where he had spent most of his free time doing the countless hours of Clinic Duty that House had neglected while he was off "saving lives." At first he would have thought this was a bland excuse to skip out on his duties, and most of the time it was, but every now and then there was a subtle hint of truth hidden in House's lies. Taking a deep breath, he ventured along the invisible road that he had walked so often it was second nature to him now. He stopped for a moment to take in the frosted lettering above the twin sets of double doors. The frosting read "Dr. Lisa Cuddy, Dean of Medicine". It was something that he had intrinsically known was there, but never had taken the time to look at; it was something akin to his friendship with House. It was always there, and would remain long after he had left the hospital, but he had never honestly taken the time to notice it for what it was.

"I can do this," he said to himself as he reached for the handles on the first set of doors, "I have to do this. Christ, listen to yourself! You should like you're a damn bumbling detective!" Wilson scoffed at himself. He could feel the cold steel door handle beneath his hand. It felt strange to him for the first time to be there, holding this metal handles, and notice the fact that they were colder than almost anything else around him. Perhaps it was in his head more than an actual truth he could touch. Either way, he bit down and retained his focus. It became apparent to him that he was looking down at the handle as he shifted his weight to open the door. Looking up, he saw that the woman he had come to speak with was sitting behind her desk, with an unknown figure sitting before her. Wilson felt himself becoming panicked and started to turn, but he caught himself before it was too late. Before he could walk away without the chance to speak to her before he left. Something he would have regretted.

It wasn't until he was moving through the second set of double doors that he saw who the strange figure was. In an instant Wilson felt his fists becoming clinched, tighter with each passing second, as the figure's features became clear. The long shaft of a cane, the half done collar of a dress shirt, and the messy hair. Wilson wanted to scream, but he fought back the creeping desire. Biting his lower lip until he felt the sting of pain radiate out of his mouth, he moved from the entrance to the couch that was several feet to his right. A small trickle of blood escape his lip and bled into his mouth. He silently hoped that neither one of them had taken the chance to notice the discomfort he was experiencing or the blood that was now pooling in his mouth. House shifted his weight in the chair in front of Cuddy. She smiled to Wilson and motioned that she would need a moment. "As I was saying," she said to House, "I need you to behave like the forty something man that you are; in other words, I need you to be an adult." she scolded. Wilson couldn't help but chuckle to himself at her remark.

"I have been acting like an adult," House retorted suavely in the same arrogant tone he always used, "but it's difficult to do my damn - you know what? I'm having trouble giving a damn what you're doing. How about you, Wilson?" he asked looking back to Wilson. Wilson could feel his heart sinking in his chest as House spoke. "Oh, Wilson!" he shouted, as if he hadn't heard what the man he had until recently called his friend had said. Swallowing the bile that had crept its way into his throat he fought to find the right things to say. He knew that House wouldn't take silence as an answer, but he wasn't about to find himself following along with his antics.

"House, I'm not in the mood for this." he replied. House stared at him almost as if he was studying a strange new disease, an alien creature that had walked in unannounced and declared itself as James Wilson. Wilson knew that he would have to find something to say that would allow him to make his point, but he was never quite sure what that something was when dealing with House. "I'm here to speak with Cuddy; nothing more. Now, take care of what you're taking care and I'll take care of what I have to and we can move along." he spoke with conviction that felt like he was lying to all three of them. In truth, he was lying. He had little to take care of and he was only in that room out of a sense of duty that wouldn't allow him to do anything less than such.

"House," Cuddy snapped at House drawing his attention back to her, "I need you to leave Wilson alone. Go. Go and do the damn MRI you were waltzing in here acting like a two year old about." she said with a tone of absolute exhaustion. He could tell that House had been wearing down on her nerves more than usual, but he knew that there was nothing he could do to help her without drawing the kind of attention that he was attempting to avoid. It was, in a small way, kind of nice to see that some things hadn't changed. Even if it was the very things he wanted to more than life itself.

Wilson watched as House stood, looked for a moment at Cuddy, and then him. "You know, if you wore something as low-cut as that, Wilson, I might be inclined to -" he said, but before he had a chance to choke out the rest of the statement, Wilson watched as Cuddy came around from behind her desk to meet him face-to-face. He could feel the tension between the two of them, Cuddy standing firm with her right hand on her hip and her left hand being used as a threat, and him standing several inches taller - almost looming over her - resting on his cane and bolstering that childish stance he wore better than most six year olds. For a moment it looked as if the two might abscond, a odd thought for him to think in such a time, but he couldn't help it. He had watched the two of them do this dance a hundred times over. Part of him was sick. Part of him wanted to see them do it. But the only thing that mattered right now to him was the small section of himself that wanted it to be over.

"Finish that statement and I swear to God House that you will be spending the rest of your natural born life in the Clinic," she threatened, "now, leave the two of us alone before I call someone -" she continued. For a moment she hesitated, unsure of how to finish the threat, but it didn't take long before House was back in the front lines. Wilson wanted to climb inside the couch and vanish, but he knew that would be impossible. He also knew what was about to come would be an explosion of unease. Out of instinct he found himself looking through his coat pocket for the bottle of Valium, but as he searched in futility he was brought back to the painful memory that he had decided that he was better than that. He was better than House, who had become so dependent upon his own little chemical friends.

"Or else what?" he scoffed back at her, "You know damn well that I'm the best you have!" he shouted. Wilson could feel the tension in his chest becoming too much to handle, but he fought back the physical signs that might offer House a clue. "And what the hell are you doing here, Wilson?" he asked, directing all of his attention to Wilson now. Wilson bit down on his lower lip. "Well, what are you doing here Wilson? It's a simple question." he teased. "Because you know and I know that there's a reason you're here. And it isn't to play footsie with Dr. Cuddy. Unless it is." he directed his attention to her and then Wilson. Wilson felt himself become increasingly bothered by the accusation and the desire to beat the essence of life from his friend.

"House, I'm not playing around right now. Leave before this becomes a lot worse than it is." Cuddy said moving from in front of the desk. Her voice was even and strict. It was a tone that she had taken only several times before with House and one that Wilson was not privy to hearing very often. She was now standing between Wilson and House. Wilson stood from the couch and drew closer to House. "James," she said resting a hand on his chest, "sit back down." she was doing her best to exude her authority, but her small frame seemed to vanish between the two men. Wilson knew she was right, though, despite his intense need to express a side of himself that would not be becoming for a man of his standings in the medical community. Or his age.

"Please don't stand in the middle of this, Lisa." Wilson replied, removing her hand from his chest. He watched as House took each intricate motion in. He knew that his mind was spinning with the hundreds of solutions to this puzzle, what it might mean, and how to exploit it. Wilson knew that look too well, having seen it during hundreds of their strange conversations when House would up and leave without warning. "House, I'm warning you. I am not in the mood to be dealing with your shit right now. Am I clear?" he asked.

"Crystal." House replied. There was a distance to his tone that frightened Wilson a bit. He was unsure if House was making the same assumption that most would make in relation to the tenderness between himself and Cuddy or if he was in the middle of an epiphany in regards to his current case. "How long have you two been dating behind my back?" he asked. Wilson felt a surge of anger rush through him. House's lips fashioned into a smirk. Wilson knew that if he tried to defend the friendship it would offer House more evidence and if he blew it off it would be the same as proclamation. This was one of those times when he knew that he had to let House have his way. If not, he would never see the end of the conversation and it would end in more heartbreak than it already could have.

"House how dare you ask something so immature," Cuddy exclaimed almost shouting now, "leave now before I make damn sure you're living in the Clinic. Do the damn tests, have Thirteen or Foreman bring me the results, and solve the fucking case. I don't care. Just get the hell out of my office." she fumed. It was within that moment that Wilson understood the exact meaning of the saying 'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned' and was happy to be standing on the outside of the fury. If anything, he found a small bit of amusement in the idea that House was the target of her anger. An anger that he was sure he had been on the wrong side of several times before. He was, after all, Gregory House and he loved to play games with her. So, for him this should have been nothing new.

Despite his assumption, Wilson watched as House struggled to find a response. It wasn't often that House was left without something to say; some cynical remark or one of the hundreds of cruel observations he would often use to tear someone else down. Wilson silently relished the moment. "Oh, come on! It doesn't take a neurologist to see that the two of you are -" House was interrupted by the sudden connection of Wilson's fist and his jaw. "Son of a bitch!" he yelped aloud as he fell back. There was a loud crash as he smacked the floor and his cane danced across the room to the double doors. For a moment no one in the room knew what had happened. The air became thick with emotion and raw with tension that had finally reached its climax.

"That felt," Wilson said turning his attention to Cuddy now, "that was a long time coming, am I right? God, this fucking…ouch." he continued. Looking down it became obvious to him that despite having used little force to hit House, he had still managed to hit him swiftly enough to draw blood on his knuckles. "I should be leaving now." he replied, looking from House on the floor to the Dean of Medicine. There was a long silence as he watched her collect her thoughts. "Lisa, I didn't mean for it to end like that." he offered, nursing his bleeding hand. The pain that was emitted from his hand was a welcome reward to something that he had been unable to stop himself from doing. He just wished that he had thought of something else instead of such a brash action that had lead to his own injury.

"I don't know what to do," she replied finally, "I mean, he did have that coming to him." she rested her left hand on her hip and used the right to brush back her hair. "James, this doesn't excuse the fact that you've…I don't even - how - what can I do?" she asked him. There was a tone of cross in her voice that spelled it out to him. She was upset, but she was debating on how to handle the case. "I can't let you off on this." she continued, searching for an answer. Wilson brought his hand to his mouth and tried to blow on the knuckles to ease the burn that was starting to set in from the impact.

House moaned as he reached out for his cane. Wilson wanted to help the man he once knew as his best-friend, but he knew that would be like rubbing it in his face. "That was," he choked out, "I had that coming." he said as he climbed to his feet. "I had that coming…" he mumbled now, bracing himself on the chair he had been resting in before Wilson had arrived. Cuddy walked over to the doors and retrieved his cane, offering it to him, but he motioned for her to rest it on the couch next to them. "I'll be leaving now." he said with finality. Wilson felt worse than he could have ever imagined as House forced his way out of the chair and towards the door. It was something that he hadn't quite expected from a man who should have known how to take a hit.

"House," Wilson said as House shuffled out of the room, "I need time." he knew he was speaking in tongues, though. House was in his own little fantasy land. He knew there wasn't much left to be said, so he turned his attention back to Cuddy, who was taking her seat behind the desk. "I've also decided to talk to that friend, uh, Dr. Scanlon? I'll need the information so I can find her." he said softly. Cuddy smiled for a brief moment and wrote something down on a scrap of paper.

"I will call her and let her know to expect a visit from the best damn oncologist that I know." she replied with a soft smile. Wilson took the information. "James," she said as he moved toward the doors, "take care of yourself." The sincerity of her tone let him know that despite the fact that he had just connected a punch with the face of their friend, who undoubtedly deserved it, she wasn't as upset as she seemed to be with him over it. It also allowed him a chance to take the leave without all the red tape and hours of uncomfortable paperwork that would only increase his chance of losing his resolve.

"Yeah." he replied trying to hide the sullen tone that had overtaken him. He knew that he could have talked to her for a few more minutes, but he already felt like he was taking too much of her time. As he left the office, and the hospital, he couldn't help but think of something he had once read. It was in reference to the death of a friend, or a loved one, he wasn't sure. All he could remember were the final words that were written at the end of the page: "the most difficult part of saying hello is knowing that, eventually, you will have to say goodbye."


	6. Strangers on a Train

**Chapter Six:**  
 **Strangers on a Train**

" _He took the midnight train going anywhere…_ " - Journey, "Don't Stop Believing"

As Wilson stood before the terminal board in the train station he felt the sudden pang of being overwhelmed. The amount of options before him, the trains that were coming and leaving the station, each another chance to distance himself from Princeton-Plainsboro. "That's a lot of choices." he said aloud as his eyes scanned the list to see when the next train to New York would be departing. He didn't care so much where in New York it left him, so long as it wasn't in the city. He could rent a car and drive from wherever he found himself to Schenectady. That was little more than a simple task and the chance to take in some of the local scenery might do him well. Still, the ever shifting entries and departures listed before him felt like an ocean of options and each one was more enticing than the last.

"Sir," a warm female voice echoed through his mind as he continued to check the board, "sir, you're next." the woman's voice echoed louder the second time around. Wilson blinked several times before directing his attention from the departures board to the woman that was speaking to him. The woman shifted her weight behind the counter and looked annoyed. "Sir." the clerk said a third time, with a hint of exhaustion in her tone. Wilson was brought back to the here and now.

"I'm never this spaced out," he apologized to the woman as he moved closer to her booth, "it's been awhile since I was in a train station like this one; or anything like this." he said absent mindedly. Wilson found it difficult to articulate the exact train that he was looking to be on. "I would like the next train to New York. I don't mind where its destination is either." he said feeling exhausted. The woman behind the desk seemed to roll her eyes, as if he was being more of an inconvenience than it was worth, but he held his tongue. All he wanted to do right now was leave. Leave and never look back.

The woman checked her computer in silence, the only sound coming from her fake nails clicking along the keys. Wilson found himself feeling more and more uncomfortable with each passing second. Glancing around the train station his mind drifted back to his encounter with House in Cuddy's office. It had been so out of character for him to react in the fashion which he had, but he felt almost as if House had it coming to him. House had crossed a line and Wilson knew it didn't matter how he reacted because House would have taken it as his logic was sound. Wilson hated that it had come down to that, but he knew that it was the only response to House's accusation. The only type of reason he tended to believe in.

Wilson's thoughts were interrupted as the woman looked up from her computer, a loud smack bounced through the halls of Wilson's mind as she blew a bubble from the gum she had been chewing. "You're in luck, sir. We have a train leaving for Mastic Beach in about an hour. Is there anything else I can assist you with?" the woman asked. There was a lull as Wilson tried to remember where Mastic Beach was. "Was there something else I could assist you with?" she asked a second time. Again, the venom of her annoyance seeped in through her words like razor blades.

"Oh," Wilson replied feeling a bit confused, "yeah, you don't happen to know the driving time from Mastic Beach to Schenectady?" he asked. Wilson watched as the woman considered what he was asking. He knew he could reach in his coat and remove his cell, make a quick call or two, and have that answer, but she had asked if there was anything else he needed. There was also the fact that Wilson wanted little to nothing to do with his cell at the moment. And it was a chance to annoy this youth a little more than he already had. A feat that seemed to taste better with each moment that went by.

"Um, allow me a moment to check on that for you." the woman replied returning her attention back to her computer. He could almost see the sarcasm ooze out of her mouth as she spoke. Wilson let out a soft sigh as he waited for the clerk to check on it for him. He could tell that he was starting to grate on her nerves, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. "The average driving time between the two is about four hours or two hundred and twentysomething miles, sir." she offered. It was a bit further than he would have liked, but there was no use in fighting with the woman about checking another departure. He reminded himself that it was also a chance to explore the area, take in some sights. Besides, what was the rush?

"That's a few miles more than I was expecting," Wilson said keeping his voice as level as he could, "but it will have to do." he continued. He would have to locate a rental service near the station, but that was something he had already figured upon. It was simply three hours of more driving that he had anticipated on. "I'll take a single ticket for that train." he said reaching into his wallet and removing his credit card. The woman took his card and processed the ticket, handing it to him with a curt smile. "Thank you." Wilson replied as he left the booth. The woman seemed to have moved on from their conversation as swiftly as it had begun.

As he left the booth Wilson felt a strange vibration rustling in his coat. It took him a moment to realize that it was his cell, which he had switched from ring when he had arrived at the station. Removing it from his coat he checked the name on the caller screen. It was Daniel, Amber's oldest brother, who had been out of town when Wilson called to let him know about his sister. For a moment all he could do was stare at the cell, watching as it danced around in his hand, not sure if he should take the call or not. Wilson knew that Daniel would leave a message if he didn't pick up, but it would mean that the next time he called he would have to deal with his verbal abuse. Questions he wasn't looking forward to answering and trying to explain House. That was something that Wilson would have liked to avoid. At all cost.

Running his right hand through his brunette hair Wilson decided that he would deal with Daniel later. He had other things on his mind right now and couldn't be bothered to deal with someone who called himself a brother, but couldn't find his way to his only sister's funeral. Wilson knew from dealing with dying patients that it was often the closest siblings that took it the hardest when he came in the room to deal the news, but this didn't excuse them for being unavailable when it was time to say their final goodbyes. Replacing the cell back in his coat, Wilson felt around for the small bottle of Valium that he knew wouldn't be there. It didn't stop him from checking, though. The habit was a hard one to break, he reminded himself.

Satisfied that Daniel could wait until he was ready to deal with him, Wilson left the main terminal and found a bench to rest on. Taking a moment to collect his thoughts, he removed the cell from his coat once again, this time turning it off. He knew that if Cuddy, Thirteen, or Cameron and Chase had tried to reach him that they wouldn't think too much on the fact that his cell was turned off. He was in the process of dealing with his grief and if it was something dire there would be a message or a collection of texts waiting for him when he eventually turned it back on. Once he had shut down the cell, Wilson reached into his bag and removed the Michael Crichton novel he had bought at the local Barnes and Noble the afternoon before. Checking the back of the novel again, he found that he was rather excited to start reading it. A feeling that he had thought he had lost long ago.

There was a soft crackling sound as he opened the novel. It was one of the few small comforts that he could take asylum in; and while he knew that it wasn't the real reason he was in the bookstore the afternoon before he found it strange that he was more excited about reading this single Crichton novel he hadn't read than starting on his healing road. A journey that he believed would bring him closure, at the very least, but there was still a small part of him that didn't buy the thought behind it. He knew that he would eventually find himself in a state of mind when he could take the time it would require to read _The Stoic Sage: Coping With Your Grief_ , but right now he wanted nothing more than to be taken along on an exciting and challenging adventure. One that didn't require the same type of introspection that Dr. Stewart's book would. Crichton's would fill the need for adventure rather well and offer a slight hint of commentary upon his state of being. An added bonus, he figured.

As he read, Wilson had become so involved in the novel that he almost didn't hear the train station's loud speaker calling out that his train had arrived. "Guess it's about that time," he spoke aloud to no one, "amazing novel, Crichton." he continued as he deposited _Sphere_ back in his baggage. Glancing across the terminal to the huge wall clock he saw that it was about six in the evening. He knew that he would be on the train for at least two and a half hours, which meant that he wouldn't be in Mastic Beach until - the earliest - about eight in the evening. He would have to call Andrea and let her know that he wouldn't be able to make it to Schenectady much before the following afternoon. Not that he thought she would mind, but it was always nice to call ahead. A dying fact of life that sometimes troubled the doctor more than he felt it should have. What was the modern world if not built upon the ashes of the old?

Joining the shuffle of bodies through the terminal to the train, he felt like he was heading off to an unknown destination. It was a feeling that had eluded him since he had lost Amber. He welcomed the feeling like he would an old friend he hadn't seen in years. There was a sudden sense that he was on the right track, that taking this train to New York was where he was meant to be. He could feel the grief washing away from him and that strange calm he had felt before coming back. Smiling to himself, he took a seat next to the window. He knew that there was a strong chance that he wouldn't be alone - it was a commuter train, after all - and didn't mind. It wouldn't be so bad having someone to talk to for a bit while he was reading. A nice bit of conversation to help melt away the loneliness that had settled in his core. Perhaps he might even make a new friend, if such a thing were possible at his age.

"Is this seat taken?" a confident female voice asked. Wilson was in the middle of resting his baggage on the seat next to him that he didn't check to see who the woman was. He motioned to her that it wasn't and he listened as she took the seat across from him. "You look kind of familiar," the woman's voice said to him as he located the book, "do I know you from somewhere?" she asked. Wilson sat the novel down beside himself and looked across the cabin to the woman with him. There was a sense of familiarity dawning upon him as well.

As he looked at the woman sitting across from him, her auburn hair resting along the edge of her shoulders and her hazel eyes drilling into him, he couldn't help but share her sense of recognition. He wasn't quite sure where he had seen this woman before, but he knew her. "Yeah," he replied softly as he searched his memories for whom this mysterious female might be, "you do look like someone I've seen before." he said still unsure of who she was. The woman leaned back in her seat, letting out a loud sigh. "Do you have someone who is staying at the Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital?" he asked, testing the waters. He didn't want to make the woman feel uncomfortable, but she seemed like someone he might have known via a patient; she might even be a former patient of his that he couldn't remember at the moment. The very thought of having forgotten a patient struck him like a pang of guilt. He had taken pride in remembering those he had treated over the years, even if it was for a quick visit or long term engagement. It was what made him one of the best oncologist in the state of New Jersey.

"No," she replied as her hazel eyes continued to drill into him, "but I am a book slave over at the Princeton Barnes and Noble." she offered. Glancing across the cabin to his seat, he saw that she noticed _Sphere_ and a radiant smile drew along her youthful lips. "You're the doctor who lost his woman," she spoke with a soft tone that reflected her sorrow in his situation, "and bought that amazing Michael Crichton novel, _Sphere_! Kind of obvious, considering you have it sitting on the seat beside you." she said. Wilson looked over to the novel and felt himself flush a small bit. "You also bought that self-help book," she continued, "oh, what was it? The one from Dr. Stewart. God, what was it?" she asked herself. Her fluidity sparked an amused look from Wilson as he fought his memories to recall the name of the book that had sat upon his tongue for so long.

" _The Stoic Sage: Coping With Your Grief_ ," Wilson replied assisting the young woman, "and so far I have yet to even crack it open. I was so caught up in this," he continued drawing _Sphere_ closer to himself, "it's an exceptional novel. I can't thank you enough for talking me into it." he offered. The young woman smiled at him and for a moment Wilson felt more at ease than he had been. There was an absolutely disarming quality about this woman. A quality that he wasn't quite sure if he liked or not, but it did offer him the comfort and ease he sought for the journey forward. If nothing else, she would definitely be one of the best options for conversation for two and a half hours.

"That's right," she said with a hint of laughter in her tone, "I'm delighted that you find it as wonderful as I've heard it was. I should score a copy while I'm out this weekend." she said, almost rambling now. Wilson offered her a smile, feeling a warm sensation course through him, "So, what brings you to this wonderful bit of mass transit, Mr…" she inquired. Her voice trailed off as she tried to identify who Wilson was, which reminded him that he had also forgotten the young woman's name as well. Another bout of embarrassment flushed itself through Wilson's cheeks. Silently, he prayed that the young woman didn't notice it. She was bound to ask him about it if she had.

"You can call me James," Wilson said as the young woman crossed her legs and let out a soft sigh, "or Wilson. Most call me Wilson, though." he said rambling. It was unlike him to find himself rambling this much. Taking a long breath he could feel himself becoming a bit tense, his muscles reacting in synchronicity with his thoughts. Wilson cursed himself under his breath for having thrown the bottle of Valium out the window of the car. A mistake that he would have to remedy once he arrived at his destination. One that would require a touch of finesse if he was to do it without trouble. Or stir more attention than he would like to on his...sabbatical.

The young woman looked out the window for a brief moment before returning her attention to Wilson. "James," she said aloud almost as if she was musing, "mind if I call you Jim?" she asked. There was a moment of absolute silence as he tried to decode what she was saying. "I mean, if it's cool with you. I would never call a man something he didn't like being called; hell, I don't even call those bastards I call an ex bad names. Well, beyond the fact that I called 'em bastards just now. Oh, you know what I mean!" she exclaimed studying Wilson. There was something light and brisk about this woman that was slowly becoming infectious.

Wilson mulled over the idea of being called Jim instead of James or Wilson. It had been years since someone called him anything except the formal version of his name. "You know what?" Wilson asked feeling the tension becoming a bit more tolerable, "you sure can. I still don't know what to call you though." he said, making sure to soften the blow of not remembering the young woman's name by allowing her to refer to him as Jim instead of James. At least, for the next two and a half hours or his next visit to the local Barnes and Noble.

The young woman beamed as she shifted her weight in the seat. "Awesome. I'm Evelyn, but you call me Eve. Most do," she replied holding out her hand, "so, Jim where are you heading on this most dreary of days? That is, if you don't mind me asking!" she inquired.

"Mastic Beach, as it were. But, that's where the train is leaving me. I'm sure you knew that, though." he replied. Eve nodded and continued to stare at him with an intense interest that he found difficult to quantify. "The truth of the matter is I'm heading to see a friend of a friend in the heart of Schenectady," he continued as the train started moving, "which is, as I'm told, one hell of a drive from Mastic Beach. Had I known this before I climbed on the train…" he offered allowing his voice to trail off a little. He tried to stifle the chuckle at the simple fact that what he said was almost too absurd to comprehend. A long train ride, another long drive, and all of this to see a friend of a friend? Ridiculous. Even he could tell that.

"I don't know if I would call it 'one hell of a drive'," Eve said watching Wilson, "but it is a long way out." she replied. Wilson let out another sigh and rested his left hand on his temple. "You feeling alright, Jim?" Eve inquired reaching across the seat to her bag. "I have something to take the edge off," she offered as she dug through her bag, "I know it's in here." she mumbled. His mind became more alert as she searched in her bag for that 'something' she mentioned. The most rational aspect of his mind shot this down swiftly and reminded him that he was off the narcotics.

"Oh," he replied watching her now, "I'm fine. Just a headache. Nothing I can't deal with. Thank you, though." he said. Eve rested the bag on the other end of the seat and nodded. "I'll be better as soon as there's some distance between me and Princeton." he mumbled looking out the window. Outside he could see the tree line moving so fast it all became a blur. He wondered if what he said was true. The more distance between himself and the hospital, from Cuddy and House, from his former life would offer him solace? He hoped.

"You know what 'fine' means, don't you?" Eve asked. Wilson wasn't sure what she was driving at, but he knew that she would soon answer her own question no matter his response. In accept defeat he shook his head. "It means, Jim, that you're 'Freaking out', 'Insecure', 'Neurotic', and 'Emotional'." she replied with a smile. He had to admit that the woman did have a logic in her assessment that he hadn't been expecting. It was also something that sounded familiar, like it was from a movie that he hadn't seen in too long, or something a friend from before his time as a doctor might have said.

"You sound like someone I work with," Wilson quipped, "you would like her. So, what brings you out this way?" he asked making small talk. He wanted to move on from discussing Amber and the hospital; he knew that he would soon enough be talking about that with Andrea. It also felt strange speaking to an almost total stranger about his work and his losses. Still, there was something calming and trustworthy about the young woman. And, from time to time, a sympathetic ear was helpful. Even if it was with a stranger.

"I am about to meet the sister I never knew I had," she offered, "which is kind of cool, right? Granted, I don't know how to feel about it. I mean, I've lived the last twenty three years of my life not knowing this woman to have her revealed to me just last week. Kind of like that scene in the movies where someone appears out of the blue and it's all like 'oh, I'm your sister' type thing," Eve said pouring out her heart to him, "but at the same time it's kind of exciting! I have a sister! And I grew up with no one. Just me. All by my lonesome." she nodded. Wilson found himself disarmed. He was worried about talking to her about his lost love and she was pouring herself out about a sister she never knew she had. The compulsion to balance the scale crept up inside of Wilson almost unnoticed.

There was a lull in the conversation as Wilson searched for something to say, trying to find the correct way of saying it without coming out desperate or needy. It seemed to have come out of the blue, her response, and he didn't want to break the woman's spirit by saying something wrong. She had, after all, just laid it out before him. Taking a moment to balance his choices, he decided that the best course of action was to offer a curt smile. "Wow," he said smiling, "that sounds like quite an adventure. What's her name?" he asked. He reminded himself to stick with the small talk and then, if it feels right, explore the issue of Amber. And House.

After a moment of thoughtful consideration Eve laughed, "Her name is Andi. I don't know her full name, though. Just that when we talked on the cell the other day that she wanted me to call her Andi. She seems kind of cool, though." she replied. Wilson couldn't help but feel like the same sounded a bit familiar to him, but he was unsure where he had heard the name before. "So, I'm meeting her in a little coffee café thing on Long Island." she nodded.

"Well, in that case I wish you only the best of luck," Wilson continued to smile at Eve, "it should be a wonderful experience for the both of you." he slid back in his seat, allowing the canvas seat to envelop him. The soft sound of the fabric filled his ears. "Best of luck." he whispered closing his eyes. In that moment he didn't want to share any longer, or read anything else. He wanted to lose himself in his own thoughts. A dangerous option, he reminded himself as he slowly drifted away.

He wasn't sure how long it had been, but he knew that it must have been at least an hour because the sun had set. Glancing around he saw that Eve was reading the novel he had brought with him. His first reaction was to find out when she had taken the novel, but he found it difficult to be upset with her. She had been nothing but honest and open with him. Filling his lungs with oxygen, he held it until he felt the burn from his lungs demanding release, and exhaled. The sound of him exhaling drew Eve's attention.

"You're awake," she said with a smile as she rested his novel on the seat beside her, "I was wondering how long it would be before you returned to the Land of the Living! I hope you don't mind." she said eyeing the novel on her seat. There was a swift shock as the train hit a bad section of the track and a loud crash echoed through the cabins. "Wow, that was a big one." she replied off-hand. Wilson faked a smile and looked over to the novel. It wasn't too often that he found himself in this situation.

"How is it so far?" he asked attempting to make small talk again, "I've only managed to read the first few chapters." he said. Eve shifted her weight and Wilson watched as she considered her answer. "Is it as awesome as the film? I hear it's pretty damn awesome." he said remembering the conversation that the two of them had shared in the aisles of Barnes and Noble.

"Oh, it's much better than the film. Dustin Hoffman has nothing on this," she said with a smirk, "I mean, sure he's cool and all, but the character is so much more fascinating in the novel. Kind of like Sam Neill as Grant in Jurassic Park when you compare it to how it's written in the novel - vast difference - but that isn't to say that the film version is bad." she said rambling. Wilson laughed a bit. "I didn't mean to take it, though. Just saw it sitting there and you were sleeping and I was about to flip through and check it out -" she continued, but Wilson stopped her in the middle of her thought.

"It's no trouble at all," he said waving his hand, "as long as it's being read. I can read more once I'm checked in at the hotel. Who knows? I might even find it in myself to start reading Dr. Stewart's book." he mused. Eve shifted her weight in the seat a second time and crossed her legs. Wilson found himself feeling that old feeling of lust building up within himself, but he knew that it wasn't real. It was the grief talking. Leaning closer, she returned the novel back to him with a smile.

"I don't know," she mused back at him, "but I don't think you're going to find what you're looking for in some self-help book. Sure, it will make you feel better, but in the end what does it leave you with?" she asked. Wilson was taken aback by the sudden philosophical logic she was expounding. "You might feel a bit better now and shit, but in the coming days and weeks? It becomes clear that the hole you filled wasn't filled enough and you need more; you need something else. I'm not trying to tell you that it was a waste of time and money - it wasn't - but if you are looking to overcome this depression…you need to live your life." she said with a tone that inflected the beyond her years logic.

Leaning back in his seat Wilson knew that Evelyn was right. He would never find the answers he was seeking in a novel, film, or the weathered journal entries he had written years before. He would have to search deep within himself to find the resolution that eluded him. Resting the Michael Crichton novel next to himself he looked over to Evelyn for a moment, contemplating a response. "Thank you for the advice, Evelyn." he replied as she settled in across from him. It wasn't much, but then, sometimes it was the simple things that made life worth living, wasn't it?


End file.
